The Black Dog Mystery (2 page)

Djuna laughed, and admitted that Mr. Boots was right. So they woke Champ up and made him hold still while they measured his width and his height and his length, and Djuna wrote the measurements down while Mr. Boots called them off.

“Now, let’s see,” said Mr. Boots, when this had been done. “Say we make the door a foot wide. Then we’ll allow a foot on each side of the door; that’ll make the house three feet long. That’ll give Champ plenty of room to move around in. Never cramp a Champ, that’s our motto, hey?”

“Yes, but ten inches high and ten inches wide will be enough for the door, won’t it?” said Djuna. “The smaller it is, the less rain can get in, don’t you think?”

“You’re right,” said Mr. Boots. “That’s plenty big enough. Now, supposin’ we make the house eighteen inches wide; and eighteen inches high, to the eaves. Reckon that’s about the ticket?”

“Oh, sure,” agreed Djuna. “That will be swell!”

Mr. Boots drew a careful plan of the house on a piece of paper, while Djuna watched breathlessly.

“Now,” said Mr. Boots, studying the plan with satisfaction, “we can begin buildin’ the framework. I’ve got about thirty feet o’ that inch-and-a-half square pine that was left over from buildin’ Miss Annie’s picket fence, I recollec’. That ought to be just the thing for it.”

He groped around under the work-bench until he found the pieces of lumber, put them on the bench and began marking them off at the places where they were to be sawed. As fast as he marked them, he handed them to Djuna to be sawed, and in about an hour the pieces were all ready to be nailed together.

“I guess I’d better do this part of the nailin’,” said Mr. Boots. “Then you can nail the boards on for the walls.”

They worked away busily all afternoon, while the rain pattered on the windows, and the time flew by. While Djuna was nailing on the side walls of Champ’s future home, Mr. Boots built the roof for it separately, so that although it would fit snugly over the walls it could be lifted off.

“You ask Miss Annie to make a bag you can stuff with straw, for him to sleep on comfortable,” said Mr. Boots. “Then, when you want to put fresh straw in it, it will be easier to get at it by liftin’ the roof than by tryin’ to pull it out of the door.”

At last the house was finished and they stood looking at it proudly. Champ knew right away that it was to be his, and went in through the little door, barked excitedly, and came out wagging his tail.

“Gee, that’s the best house I ever saw!” exclaimed Djuna.

“It ain’t a bit too good for Champ,” said Mr. Boots.

“Well, I should say not!” said Djuna. “Gee, just wait till Miss Annie sees it!”

“There’s one more thing it needs,” said Mr. Boots, looking at it and rubbing his chin. “How would you like it if I gave it a coat of paint? It would look pretty nice painted white, don’t you think?”

“Oh, sure!” cried Djuna. “That will be wonderful! Shall we do it now?”

Mr. Boots shook his head. “Paint don’t dry so good when you put it on in wet weather,” he said. “Better wait till we get a good sunny day.”

Just then the sun came out and all the raindrops glittered on the trees.

“Look!” said Djuna. “There’s the sun, now!”

“Yes, but there’s still dampness in the air,” insisted Mr. Boots. “What say if we do it tomorrow?” He looked at the clock over the work-bench. “Gettin’ along time for supper, too,” he said. “Time I went over to Willis Pindler’s and got me a slice o’ ham, or somethin’. You come over here tomorrow, Djuna, and we’ll finish it up. Or were you fixin’ to go fishin’ tomorrow?”

“Well, I was,” said Djuna, “but now I’d rather finish up Champ’s house. And, besides, I haven’t got any hooks or line or anything. Miss Annie said she’d give me some money, but I guess she forgot.”

“Well, now, don’t you go botherin’ her for it,” said the old man. “I’ve got some old tackle here you might’s well take as not. You come over tomorrow and as soon as we get the house painted, you can take it and welcome.”

“Oh, thanks, Mr. Boots!” exclaimed Djuna. “And say, if we paint the house white, what color shall we paint the roof?”

“Well, let’s have a look and see what color you think is pretty,” said Mr. Boots. “I’ve got mighty near any color you want.”

They walked over to the shelves where the paint-cans stood and Djuna studied all the labels carefully. “Green, I guess,” he said at last. “That’s the way Miss Annie’s roof is. I guess we’d better make it match.”

“That’s a good idea!” agreed Mr. Boots heartily. “Now that’s settled, let’s attend to some marketin’. Time you got home, too, I expect.”

They went into Mr. Pindler’s store and Mr. Boots bought a can of sardines for his supper. “Oh, there’s a letter here for you, George,” remarked Mr. Pindler, as he put the sardines on the counter. “I was going to take it over to you if you didn’t come in.”

“For me?” said Mr. Boots in a surprised tone.
“I
ain’t expectin’ any mail.”

Mr. Pindler handed him the letter and Mr. Boots put on his spectacles and studied the handwriting on the envelope.

“It’s my name, all right,” he admitted. “But it beats
me
who it’s from.”

“One way of finding out is to open it,” suggested Mr. Pindler dryly.

Mr. Boots chuckled. “So ’tis,” he agreed. He opened the envelope, took out the letter, and began to read it. But as he did so, his hands began to tremble and a strange frightened look came over his face. Without saying a word, he folded the letter with shaking fingers and hurried out.

Djuna and Mr. Pindler stood staring after him with amazement.

“Gee, what’s the matter with Mr. Boots?” exclaimed Djuna wonderingly.

Mr. Pindler shook his head. “Must have been some bad news,” he said. “Well, I reckon it’s none of our business, Djuna, or he’d have told us. Hope it ain’t nothin’ serious.”

“Gee, I hope not!” said Djuna earnestly. “Well, goodbye, Mr. Pindler.”

As he got to the store porch, Djuna looked towards Mr. Boots’s carpenter shop. A small open truck, very old and rusty, had just driven up and two men were climbing out of it in front of Mr. Boots’s house. Djuna recognized one of the two men. He was a man named Lester Sedd. Everybody called him Les’ Sedd, for short. He lived in a shack in the woods, on the edge of Lost Pond, a mile or two from Edenboro. Djuna didn’t know who the other man was. He didn’t look like a farmer.

Djuna saw the two men walk over to Mr. Boots and begin talking to him at his front door. Pretty soon Mr. Boots began shaking his head. The more they talked, the more he shook his head, and Djuna could see he was growing excited. Finally he turned and went into his shop, and the two men followed him in.

Djuna whistled for Champ, who had wandered off down the road, and they started for home. At first he walked very slowly, wondering what the letter had said, to upset Mr. Boots so badly. But he had gone only a few steps when he heard his name called. He looked up. It was Clarabelle Smith. Clarabelle was Mr. Pindler’s niece, and had come to visit her uncle and aunt for the summer. She was standing on the front porch of Mr. Pindler’s house.

“Did you see the rainbow?” she asked excitedly.

“Gee, it was
marvelous
!
”

Djuna shook his head. “No,” he said. “Was there one?”

“Sure, right after the rain stopped and the sun came out! It’s gone now, but it was right over there, back of
your
house. Say, where
is
a rainbow after it’s gone?”

Djuna stared at her doubtfully. “What’s the matter with you?” he demanded. “Are you crazy?”

“No, but where
does
it go?” Clarabelle persisted. “What do they
do
with all those colors?”

“What colors?” Djuna retorted. “There aren’t any colors in a rainbow. You just think there are.”

“There are, too!” said Clarabelle indignantly. “I guess I know what I saw with my own eyes, don’t I? Red, and blue, and all sorts of colors!”

“Well, they’re just drops of water,” said Djuna. “They’re what’s left over after it stops raining.”

“I know,” said Clarabelle. “But what I mean is, where do they go next? I should think they’d run down and make all sorts of ponds—red ponds, and blue ponds, and all sort of colors. I don’t see why not.

“Well, there isn’t any color in rain-water,” Djuna insisted. “I caught some in a glass, once, and there isn’t any. It’s only when it’s up in the air and the sun shines on it just the right way. It sparkles, and that’s what makes the colors. See what I mean?”

Clarabelle pondered. “I guess so,” she said doubtfully.

Djuna giggled. “
I
don’t,” he admitted. “Next time there’s a rainbow I’m going to take it to pieces and find out.”

Clarabelle laughed out loud. “Oh, Djuna, you’re
crazy!”
she said admiringly.

“All right, you just wait and see,” said Djuna, grinning. “I’ve got to go home, now. So long, Clarabelle.”

He raced Champ the rest of the way home and the two of them almost collided with Miss Annie as she opened the kitchen door to let them in.

“Glittering glories!” exclaimed Miss Annie, smiling at them. “Djuna, have you got any breath left, or would you mind running over to Mr. Johnson’s and getting some eggs for me? I thought we’d have scrambled eggs for supper, and there isn’t one left.”

“Oh, sure!” panted Djuna, taking the basket and the money for the eggs. “Say, just wait till you see the house we built for Champ, Miss Annie! It’s all done, except for being painted!”

“Really? Already?” said Miss Annie. “That’s wonderful! But you’d better hurry now, or we’ll
never
get supper. Skip, now, both of you!”

Mr. Johnson’s chicken-farm was not far away, and they got there in no time. Djuna knocked at the back door, and Mr. Johnson came out, wiping his mouth.

“Just settin’ down t’ supper,” he exclaimed. “Want some eggs? Well, let’s go out to the coops and get ye some right fresh ones.”

As they walked toward the chicken-coops, where dozens of hens and young chickens were scratching around in the fenced-in yards, which were right on the edge of a brook running through the woods, Djuna looked around inquiringly.

“Where’s your dog, Mr. Johnson?” he asked. “You haven’t sold him, have you?”

“No, sir!” said Mr. Johnson. “I wouldn’t sell that pup—a cocker spaniel like that is mighty hard to get. Why, he’s got a pedigree, that pup has! He’s around here, somewhere.”

Just then all the hens in the coops began squawking and running wildly around, as if they had been frightened by something, and a moment later the young cocker spaniel came trotting around from behind the row of chicken-houses. He was carrying a dead chicken in his mouth. As soon as he saw Mr. Johnson, he began to wag his tail and came trotting straight toward him, with his long silky ears flapping as he ran.

Mr. Johnson’s face flushed dark as a thunder-cloud, and he looked as if he were going to choke with rage. As soon as the dog came up to him, he seized it roughly, took the dead chicken away from him, and began dragging the frightened spaniel toward the barn.

“Oh, gee, Mr. Johnson!” cried Djuna, in alarm. “What’s the matter?”

“Plenty!” growled Mr. Johnson. “Th’ pup has taken to killin’ chickens, and that ends him! I’ll fix him!”

“Oh, please!” cried Djuna. “Maybe he didn’t kill it! Maybe something else killed it!”

“Of course he killed it,” said Mr. Johnson, indignantly. “You heard th’ squawkin’! One of my best layin’ hens, too! Once a dog starts killin’, he keeps right on at it. Nothin’ to do but get rid of him.”

Djuna picked up the dead chicken. “Wait, Mr. Johnson!” he cried. “It’s still warm!”

Examining it carefully, he saw that there was no blood on its feathers anywhere except at its throat, where a few drops had oozed out. He parted the throat feathers gently and looked at the wounds. There they were—tiny holes, looking as if they had been made with the point of a penknife.

“Look!” said Djuna excitedly. “Look at this, Mr. Johnson!”

“What about it?” growled the farmer.

“Your dog didn’t do it!” cried Djuna. “Look, the feathers aren’t rumpled up at all, and when a dog kills a chicken it always shakes it and bites it and musses it all up! But there’s just these tiny little holes here. It must have been a weasel, or a mink, or something!”

Mr. Johnson looked at the holes in the chicken’s throat and slowly nodded. “Well, by gummy, I believe you’re right, Djuna!” he said at last. “Might have been a weasel, at that.”

“Probably he’d just killed it when your dog came along and scared him so that he dropped it,” said Djuna eagerly. “So he was bringing it to you.”

“You’re right,” the farmer said, now thoroughly convinced. “I certainly am obleeged to you,

Djuna. You’re right, th’ pup carried that chicken just as gentle as if ’twas an eggshell! Well, now, what do you know about that!”

He reached down and patted the spaniel’s head and stroked its ears. “Good dog!” he said.

Djuna hurried home with his basket of eggs, as soon as Mr. Johnson got them for him, and told Miss Annie the story.

“Why, Djuna, I think that was just wonderful!” exclaimed Miss Annie. “Just imagine thinking that all out! I’m proud of you!”

“I don’t believe I would have thought of it,” said Djuna, “if it hadn’t been for Mr. Boots. Mr. Boots says—”

He stopped short. He had suddenly remembered that Mr. Boots had asked him not to say anything about his nephew to anyone.

“Mr. Boots says people are always guessing too quick,” he went on. “He says it’s the worst thing anybody can do.”

“And that’s very true,” said Miss Annie. “That’s a very good thing to remember. Well, wash your face and hands, Djuna, and supper will be ready.”

“Yes’m,” said Djuna. “As soon as I feed Champ.”

When supper was over, and they had washed the dishes, Miss Annie lit the lamp in the front room and they played checkers until Djuna’s bedtime, while Champ snoozed peacefully under the kitchen table. When it was time to go to bed, Djuna took Champ outdoors and Champ stood very sleepily while Djuna fastened him by his chain to the old wooden box that had been his home ever since he was big enough to sleep outdoors.

“You’re going to have a new house, you know, pretty soon,” Djuna assured him. “Maybe tomorrow.”